


Banksy-Ass Wannabe

by n00dl3Gal



Series: Spray It, Don't Say It [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bad Pick-Up Lines, F/M, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Graffiti, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Korean Keith (Voltron), Lance is Meme King and you can fight me on this, M/M, Memes, Multi, Self-Indulgent, Street artist au, Trans Keith (Voltron), depending on what your headcanon ages for them are at least, it's literally mentioned twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n00dl3Gal/pseuds/n00dl3Gal
Summary: Lance has done many, MANY stupid things in his 19 years.But ruining someone else's spray might be the stupidest. ESPECIALLY if that person is his biggest rival.(The Graffiti/Street Artist AU that no one asked for, with hints of College AND Coffee Shop AUs, because I'm a giver.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I WROTE A COFFEE SHOP AU.  
> THIS IS WHAT KLANCE HAS REDUCED ME TO. 
> 
> Anyway, special thanks to screwitanddoitanyway on tumblr for looking this over, suggesting ideas, and generally enabling this whole fiasco. Additionally, shout out to cubanbisexuallance for her help with Lance's pet name from his mom. True MVPs, I tell ya. 
> 
> Also: I've never used Instagram, so I have no idea if this is accurate. Whoops. 
> 
> Voltron doesn't belong to me, yada yada, etc etc.
> 
> EDIT: After season 2 basically confirmed Pidge as a trans girl, I've gone back through and changed all her pronouns to reflect this.
> 
> EDIT EDIT: THERE'S FANART! I commissioned this from 7imothysucks- it's the scene at the very end of the fic. Thank you so much buddy and if anybody else wants to create fanart, PLEASE DO SO!!! You will have my undying loyalty as a result. http://7imothysucks.tumblr.com/post/157636716118/a-commission-done-for-n00dl3gal-thank-you-its-a

Lance stands back, admiring his latest masterpiece. “Isn’t it magnificent?” he says quietly, despite no one being around. “I should Snap this.”

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, staining the already rainbow case with the spray paint on his hands. Light flashes in the alleyway as he captures a picture of his art, sending it to his best friends.

 **LanceInYourPants:** check out my newest creation ;-)  
**AWildPidgeAppeared:** lance it’s 3 am  
**ChocolateHunkCookies:** and that’s just the arthur fist with the caption “when people make graffiti”  
**LanceInYourPants:** it’s meta, hunk! It’s graffiti against graffiti!  
**ChocolateHunkCookies:** stop trying to be red lion, bro  
**LanceInYourPants:** don’t you dare mention him  
**AWildPidgeAppeared:** i’m going back to sleep

“Forget them, I think it’s good,” Lance sighs, packing up his supplies. “Wouldn’t understand good art if it bit them in the ass…” Flicking up his kickstand, he starts to pedal home.

He’s about three-fourths the way back to his apartment when he notices it out of the corner of his eye. A mural of the state senator towers over him, face replaced with a shattered mirror. On his lapel is a crimson paw print.

Red Lion.

Lance HATED Red Lion. They’ve been stealing his thunder ever since his first spray- a circus tent labeled “CONGRESS”- appeared four months ago. Always trying to be meta, angsty, pretentious- “Banksy-ass wannabe,” Lance mutters.

And at four in the morning, brain already scrambled from spray paint fumes and a shot of cheap whiskey (Wild Turkey, if his memory isn’t too foggy), Lance decides it’s time to take action.

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a blue can.

. . .

“Are. You. KIDDING ME?” Keith screeches, sound carrying across the apartment and waking his roommate, Shiro.

  
“What the hell, dude?” Shiro asks, pushing himself up from his drool-covered pillow. “It’s Saturday, why are you up-”

“Look!” Keith shoves his phone into Shiro’s face, who processes the picture groggily.

It’s graffiti of the senator with a cracked mirror face, with a the words “BluDude” sprayed over a red paw print. “They defaced my tag? Who DOES that?”

“BluDude, apparently,” Shiro states, flopping back into bed. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Keith, fed up with this apathy, throws his sweatshirt in his sleeping roommate’s face. “No you’re not, you’re staying up and helping me kill this guy!”

At that, the older man finally slings his feet over the side of the bed, wincing as his toes touch the cold floor. “First of all, no murder. Secondly, it’s graffiti, Keith. You don’t get paid for it, you don’t get any name exposure, and it’s illegal. The guy probably had one too many beers and thought it would be funny.” He shrugs. “Just calm down.”

The shorter man huffs, but eventually nods. “Yeah, you’re right… but I swear to God if he does this again…”

. . .

“So you’re gonna do it again?” Hunk asks, taking a bite of his Danish. “That’s ballsy.”

Lance shrugs, flinching when Pidge slaps his hand away from her bagel. “Worth it, though. Finally getting a reaction out of that stoic freak.”

“You’ve never seen them before in your life,” Pidge reminds him, not bothering to look up from her laptop.

Lance dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Details.”

“Caramel latte for Lance?”

Lance walks up to the pick-up counter where a Korean boy with a mullet- seriously? And why is it so sexy?- holds out a drink covered in whipped cream. “Hey, Keith.”

Keith smiles, just a tad. “Hi Lance. Sea salt caramel latte with extra cream, just the way you like it.”

Lance puts his hand to his chest, blue eyes fluttering dramatically. “Aww, you remembered! I’m flattered!”

“Yeah, well, you tip me so much, and it’s my job.” Keith picks up the mixer he was cleaning before turning back to Lance. “You OK? Is there something wrong with the drink?”

In truth, Lance was captivated by Keith’s muscles and the way they jutted out of his tight shirt when working- but he isn’t about to admit that. “Uh, n-no- but I gotta ask. How come I don’t see you in class anymore? I miss all those snarky comments you made behind Professor Coran’s back.”

Keith’s face falls just a fraction. “Ah… I dropped out.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Right,” Lance says, lips tight. “A-anyway, see ya!” He’s gone back to his seat before Keith can even blink.

“Strange guy…” he mutters to himself. “But cute.”

. . .

Spraying started out as a weird sort of therapy for Lance.

He had always been a bit of an artist, doodling in the margins of his homework and scribbling on whatever medium was available- papers, folders, his own arms. But he would never deface actual property.

Well, not until high school.

Lance and the coach of the volleyball team never really got along. Lance tended to be selfish during practice- never during actual games, mind you- but he only hogged the ball because he was the best player on the team. If you asked him, at least. Either way, Sendak eventually got fed up with this behavior and benched him during a legit game. One against their rivals, Galra HIgh, no less.

The night after the match- which they lost, due to a lack of their star player- Lance snuck out, bought a can of spray paint from the Home Depot on his bus route, and wrote IVERSON ROOTS FOR GALRA on the outside wall of the gym. When he woke up the following morning, the extent of his petty revenge dawned on him with the sun. He could be expelled. Arrested. Oh God, his mom was going to KILL him. He threw the incriminating evidence into his neighbor’s trash and hightailed it to campus before his mom could even let out a “good morning, Lancito.”

Except when he got to school, the graffiti was receiving universal praise from the student body and next to no response from any faculty. Lance was in the clear.

So he tried again, vandalizing dumpsters and outside walls. His rage face in the bathroom populated by druggies and jocks was a huge hit, leading him to his niche. After a few months, he started an Instagram, which helped him gain confidence to spray beyond school property (and boost his ego with the growing number of followers). His username was BluDude and it stuck.

Now, Lance sprays for the rush, for the fans. To him, it’s like being a rockstar.

And then Red Lion showed up.

. . .

For Keith, meanwhile, graffiti was a dare gone wrong.

It was after a shift at the coffee shop when Keith was working closing. His coworker for the evening, some guy named Sven with a dopey voice, had laughed at a half-hearted jab towards the local government Keith had made.

“That’s very funny, Keith! You should write that on city hall!”

In retrospect, Sven was likely exaggerating, or going on some sort of tangent. Nevertheless, a couple days later, the joke was present in blood red on the justice building.

And for whatever reason- at this point, Keith honestly forgot- he never really stopped.

(Explaining it to Shiro was a pain, though, but he was bribed into silence with a month of dishes and laundry.)

. . .

Keith blinks a few times when he’s told to make a strawberry-and-cream frappe for Lance. It’s June, the local college has finished the school year, so unless-

“Hey there,” comes a familiar voice. “Are you looking hotter than usual, or is it just me?”

“It’s 86 outside, and our uniforms require pants,” Keith says. “So yes. Why aren’t you at home?”

Lance looks downright offended. “You wound me. I can’t visit my fave coffee shop place- and barista?”

“I mean, you can, but why aren’t you back in your hometown?”

The other boy laughs, a sparkling ringing that makes Keith’s toes curl. “Keith, I moved here four years ago. We went to the same high school.”

A memory flashes in Keith’s brain of a boy with crooked teeth and a black eye. “Huh. Guess I forgot.”

“That’s admittedly impressive.”

Keith hums in agreement. How could he forget the transfer student from Florida who swore out the homeroom teacher in Spanish on the first day? “Well, nice to know someone will be keeping my job interesting over the summer.”

Keith fails to notice the pale pink flush spreading over Lance’s cheeks.

. . .

He wasn’t going to let this stupid rivalry with BluDude get to him. Keith was able to ignore it, let it slide. He was an adult.

But then he walks past one of his own creations on his way home from a late shift and notices the graffiti overlapping it.

Keith’s original piece was a rather basic one, showing a group of cops behind bars. Not exactly subtle. But BluDude?

Oh, BluDude DESTROYED it.

With a few additional lines, they had twisted the meaning into something shallow and devoid of insight. Instead of being a blunt but stark reminder of corrupt police forces, BluDude turned it into a post on Twitter with the caption “omg banksy notice me #3edgy5me.”

Keith fumes, flexing his half- gloved fingers to keep himself from punching the exposed brick. Who the HELL would have the nerve to-

No. He’s not going to rise to the bait. He’s the bigger man.

So he walks on, ignoring the feeling in his gut to seek petty revenge. It’s a strong urge, and normally Keith would indulge it, but when he’s already breaking the law, laying low would be wise.

“Banksy isn’t even that good,” he mumbles. “Too direct.”

Nevertheless, when Keith gets back to his apartment, he falls back onto the stained couch, groaning. “Long day at work?” Shiro asks from the kitchen.

“Work was fine, actually,” Keith answers, rolling his shoulders under his black t-shirt loose. “Nothing big or weird, except Lance made some comment about how people call him Snickers, cuz he’s ‘guaranteed to satisfy?’” Shiro bites back a laugh, eyes squinting. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. But what _was_ weird?” Shiro says quickly, setting two cups of lemon tea down on the coffee table.

Keith recounts the story of his walk home to his roommate, who listens intently. “I’m proud of you for not getting upset. Don’t give this guy the satisfaction.”

Keith nods, a slight scowl on his lips. “Hey, why’re you still up anyway?”

Shiro turns a pale maroon. “I, um… only just got back from my date with Allura…”

Keith laughs, finally cracking a smile. “You’re hopeless.” He pushes himself off the sofa with a groan.

“Need help with your binder?” the older man offers.

“You know me too well, Shiro.”

. . .

Pidge doesn’t look up from her computer when Lance slams his head on the table. “No one notices me,” he laments.

Hunk rolls his eyes. “Yes, that’s your problem. You’re so invisible.”

“I meant,” Lance says in a low growl, “Keith doesn’t notice me. I broke out my best line yesterday, too.”

Pidge pulls off her headphones. “Not the one about Skittles,” she whispers, horrified.

“Dude, no, that one’s dumb and homophobic. I did the Snickers one.”

“Oh God, that’s even worse. Thank God he’s not on today or he’d kick your ass."

“Doesn’t matter, he didn’t get it anyway…” Lance sighs, laying his head in his crossed arms on the cracked ceramic.

“Why do you have so many pick up lines related to candy?” Hunk asks. Lance shrugs, mumbles something about Halloween coming up, and pokes at his smoothie with his straw. “OK, now I KNOW something else is up. You don’t get this depressed over someone ignoring your flirting. What’s up?”

“Red Lion. I admit I’m goading them, yeah, but this is ridiculous,” Lance explains, fidgeting with his green hoodie that it’s far too warm for (“aesthetics,” Lance claims). When Hunk asks for clarification, he sheepishly admits “I may have sprayed around one of their pieces?”

“Dude,” Pidge says.

Hunk rubs his temples. “Oh my God, Lance, I don’t even spray and I know that’s dumb.”

“I just like seeing that prick get upset, all right? But they didn’t react at all! Zip! Nada!”

“You’ve really got it bad, bro,” Hunk announces, crumpling his napkin.

“Wh-what? No! Why would i like that pretentious little shit?” Lance stammers, red as a fire truck.

Pidge returns her attention to her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Lance, you’re a moron.”

. . .

This is the last straw.

Keith could put up with BluDude defacing his tags, having his art overlap, all of it. But this is where he drew the line.

He was actually rather proud of his last creation, almost to the point of vanity. It was of the two candidates for the election, bags over their heads that read “hate” on one and “death” on the other. They stood at podiums built from garbage falling from the bottom of the paper bags. He had been much more meticulous than usual, with a wider palette and more attention to details. A magnum opus, except Keith wasn’t stopping.

And BluDude had sprayed “#DICKSOUTFORHARAMBE” over it all in putrid green.

“Are you seeing this, Shiro!” he yells, punching the couch. “He memed on my art! AN OUTDATED MEME THAT WAS NEVER EVEN FUNNY!”

“So you’re admitting some memes are funny?” Shiro calls back, completely serious.

“...shut up and come help me with my injections, I have work in two hours.” As Shiro readies the shots, Keith types up an Instagram post, using the vandalized graffiti as an attention grabber: “@BluDude, you v me, 1 am, behind the 7-11 on Carson. Bring ur paint.”

. . .

“OK, NOW I’m nervous,” Lance declares, glaring at his phone. “Look at this shit.”

Hunk reads what’s on the screen and whistles lowly. “Red Lion is calling you out, bro. Wants to throw down.” He whistles, neither approvingly or upset.

Pidge bothers to glance away from her screen. “You gonna go?"

Lance puffs his chest. “Of course I’m gonna go! Mama didn’t raise no quitter!”

Hunk snorts. “Yeah, but she did raise a loser.” Lance shoves him and they both laugh before settling back into their banter about school and the last episode of _America’s Got Talent._

“You know what might happen, right?” Pidge suddenly asks. When Lance cocks his head, she elaborates: “the location of two of the city’s biggest vandals is public on the internet. Dude, the place is gonna be swarming with cops.” Lance blanches. “Just a reminder.”

The Latino boy mulls it over before shaking his head. “No. I’ve come this far. If nothing else, I want to expose Red Lion’s identity. I’m still coming out on top.”

“Speaking of being on top, your boyfriend has your drink,” Hunk interjects, nudging his shoulder towards the counter.

“He’s not my boyfriend… yet.” Lance pushes his chair away and saunters up to the pick-up.

“I don’t get how you can stomach this stuff. I swear I lose a foot every time I have to make one,” Keith says, handing Lance his drink with a grimace.

“Pumpkin spice is a godsend!” Lance counters with a huff. His face abruptly morphs into a sly grin. “Much like you.”

Keith blinks a few times. “Wait… you’ve been flirting with me!” Is it just him, or is the room hotter?

“NOW he realizes it!” a voice- Keith identifies him as Lance’s friend, Hunk- shouts from across the room. The other friend- Pidge?- slaps Hunk on the upper arm.

Lance himself seems to be rendered mute, mouth flapping with little sound aside from his lips popping. “I… I um… yeah. I’ve been flirting. With- you seriously didn’t notice?”

Keith shrugs, still ketchup red. “I guess not. I’m- I’m sorry, Lance.”

“N-no, it’s OK!” Lance says, gesturing wildly. “But… now that you know… maybe we could, I dunno… go out sometime?”

Keith nearly chokes on his own spit. “A-a date?”

Lance nods vigorously. “Would tonight work?” _Cuz I may be in jail tomorrow,_ he thinks.

Keith is about to agree- he is interested, no doubt- but then he remembers the clash with BluDude. “I… not tonight, but maybe Friday?” he offers hopefully.

The taller boy’s face falls a little, but soon his trademark grin returns. “Y-yeah! Um, what’s your number? I’ll text you the info.”

Grabbing the Sharpie off his apron, Keith jolts a string of numbers on Lance’s cup. Their fingers brush, lingering a moment as the drink is handed over, but neither say anything.

. . .

Lance checks his phone. 12:57 AM. Any minute- “Ah-ha!” he exclaims, pointing at the shadow just beyond the fluorescent light’s flicker. “Red Lion!”

There’s no response at first, but then: “what the… Lance?”

No way. No fucking way. “Keith, what the hell are you- YOU’RE RED LION?” Lance yells, realization hitting him.

“YOU’RE BluDude?” Keith responds, finally stepping into the dingy glow. “Wha- you ruin my art, then have the audacity to ask me out?”

“I didn’t know it was you! I only asked you cuz I thought I was gonna go to jail!” Lance says, dropping his backpack and raising his fists. “‘Sides, if I had known my crush was some conspiracy theory fucker, I wouldn’t have bothered!”

Keith rolls up his sleeves and takes a few steps forward. “Oh, like your stuff is so stimulating,” he mocks. “Memes and hashtags, real original.”

“I’ve been tagging longer than you!"

“And who has more followers?”

With each taunt, they move closer, fire in their eyes growing. The insults, however, begin to morph.

“That Arthur one from a few months ago you did… it was actually pretty funny…”

“Have I ever told you you have a knack for color?”

Keith looks up at Lance. They’re essentially chest-to-chest at this point. He wets his lips, and given the hitch in Lance’s breath, the other certainly notices. “You know, the reason I turned you down earlier today was because of this. So, in a way…”

It’s enough. Lance grabs his waist, pulling him flush against the other. “Still wanna throw down?”

“Oh fuck yes.” And their lips smack together.

If either of them had imagined this scenario- and they both had, quite a bit- it likely wasn’t in the dead of night by a convenience store dumpster, but neither of them were complaining. There’s the taste of cinnamon and kimchi and maybe a hint of booze, there’s bumping noses and filthy sounds, and there’s a hand on an ass and tongues battling gladiator-style.

They’d probably be content to remain in this position forever, except for the squad cars rolling up.

“Put your- oh. Oh, oh, ahem,” the cop says, turning a putrid crimson. “Sorry, boys. There are supposed to be some vandals here, but I guess not. Although it’s really rather late, you should head home.”

Keith is the first one to recover.

“S-sorry, officer, we’ll be on our way.” He grabs Lance’s hand and yanks him away, breaking out into a jog once they’re past the 7-11. Lance gasps, clutching his backpack like his life depends on it. “That was close."

“Too close,” Lance agrees, and their eyes meet briefly before they start kissing again.

Once the demand of oxygen breaks them apart, Lance asks the burning question: “so, um… wanna do a collab?”

Keith’s face falls back into its signature pout. “Nothing about maybe, oh, I dunno, DATING?” he counters, fists curling.

“I thought that was a given. Dude, I literally asked you out earlier. Of course I want to be boyfriends.”

“Oh. Right.” Keith swallows, looks at their entwined hands, and the blank wall behind them. “You got any paint on you?”

. . .  
The next morning, Keith came into work with a hickey, Lance was late to class, and a new piece of graffiti appeared on Carson Street in bright purple.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Thanks for reading! If you want more Klance feels, check out my playlist for them: http://8tracks.com/n00dl3g-l/punch-me-in-the-mouth-with-your-lips and my tumblr, n00dl3gal, where I scream about Voltron a lot (and Overwatch and whatever else I'm obsessed with at the moment).
> 
> 2\. I couldn't decide on an ending, so here's the alternate.
> 
> They’d probably be content to remain in this position forever, except for the squad cars rolling up. 
> 
> “Put your- oh. Oh, oh, ahem,” the cop says, turning a putrid crimson. “Sorry, boys. There are supposed to be some vandals here, but I guess not. Although it’s really rather late, you should head home.”
> 
> They nod, mumbling apologies, and Lance leans down to grab his backpack. In doing so, he nudges it and a single spray can rolls out, landing at the cop’s booted foot. 
> 
> “...it’s not what it looks like?” 
> 
> Next to him, Keith facepalms.


End file.
